“Would it be possible to continue my investigation among the Indian tribes?” asked Benson.
“Oh, it ain't them,” said Hickman. “They'll steal an ox to eat, maybe; but they wouldn't attack a well-armed party of whites. If it was the Indians, it was them back on the plains, you may be certain of that.”
“If it was the Indians—” broke in Young, “it's my business to know it. I'm Indian agent here; and if they are up to any such deviltries I'll sweat repentance out of them!” and he looked ugly.
Benson rose from his chair.
“Thank you,” he said to Young gratefully. “With your help I may be able to learn something. At any rate you shall hear from me in a day or so.”
A week elapsed, and Benson sorrowfully confessed that so far as his purpose was concerned, he was not one whit wiser than when he arrived at Salt Lake City.
Each day, Mr. Hickman, at the handsome figure he had fixed upon as a reasonable remuneration for the benefits he would confer, bore him company in his search; at first displaying a sardonic humour which his employer wholly failed to enjoy; later this changed to a sneering petulance, for the lawyer's persistency was of a kind he had scarcely bargained on. Yet, in the end, Benson's determination provoked him to a grudging admiration to which he gave expression in characteristic speech.
“You certainly ain't much of a quitter, sir,” he said. “What's your next move going to be? For I reckon there's a next move coming.”
“Several next moves,” said Benson, slightly nettled by the man's manner.
“Well, we'll take 'em one at a time. What comes first?” Hickman asked grinning.